


The Bounds of Modesty

by wyvernwood



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Consent Issues, Drugged and Bound, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Minor femslash in addition to the het content, Prostitution, Rape Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sacrilege, Seventeen-year-old character in sexual situations who is well above the age of consent in her milieu, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernwood/pseuds/wyvernwood
Summary: "The adepts of Alyssum, famed for their modesty, were robed and veiled as Yeshuite priests and priestesses, profanely provocative." Apparently, Alyssum traffics in sacrilege as well as modesty. Or so some may have been misled to believe, perhaps not entirely by fault of their own.
Relationships: Original Female Alyssum Adept/Original Male Patron
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	The Bounds of Modesty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xenocuriosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenocuriosa/gifts).



Amalie had been born into Dahlia house, but her father had been of Alyssum, and the Dowayne of Dahlia House judged her better suited, in both looks and personality, to her father's demure house than to her mother's. Amalie's perfect oval face might be thought plain for a D'Angeline when expressionless and still. Her eyes were stormy gray, and when they caught the light, they shone with a great clarity. And she blushed most handsomely at the slightest provocation.

The canon of Alyssum House is modesty, and the adepts of that house are beautiful as every Night-Blooming Flower must be, but in the least showy way of all the Houses of the Night Court. Nonetheless, they are still sworn servants of Naamah, and regularly set their modesty aside in her service. Best of all the houses, they know the duality of how d'Angelines view the Night Court; on the one hand with devout fervor and great respect for those who, like the angel herself, take as their calling and vocation the giving of pleasure — and on the other, as trumped up whores, trinkets to be bargained for like gaudy jewelry, worn for one night and then cast aside.

 _Love as thou wilt_ is the tenet of all d'Angelines: in Terre D'Ange, as everywhere, there are those for whom the commandment of religion is more invigorating in breach than in observance. In every nation, even that blessed land, live those who delight in sacrilege. Alyssum House finds itself catering to many of these endangered souls, with adepts who at a patron's request will feign the roles of celibate Yeshuite priests and priestesses, of sheltered young girls who have never known a man, or sworn Cassiline priest-warriors who have been lured into vow-breaking. 

Amalie had her share of patrons with such fantasies, who enjoyed her role-play of the timid ravished virgin, brought to pleasure against her will by passionate lovemaking. It flattered her patrons how beautifully she blushed, how shyly she hid her face from them as she spent her pleasure, her protests shifting from denial to feigned shame. With most of them, she found the situations touching, or amusing, when she considered later how she and they had played their parts. 

There had been one, though. Handsome, a priest of Elua and perhaps that had been why she had felt such a different, less happy emotion after fulfilling her contract with him. She had felt he was, in some way she could not explain but even more could not bear, betraying his oaths even in pretending to violate them without truly doing so. He had offered for her again and she had refused.

The Dowayne's second came to talk to her the third time she refused his offer of contract. "It is very generous," she said, standing in the doorway of Amalie's room. 

Amalie plumped her kneeling cushion and knelt down, showing proper respect. "Respectfully, Sistenne, I refuse to contract with Vercel Lecouraine. However generous he may choose to be." She folded her hands carefully and pressed them to her chest. 

"There are other adepts who will serve him, and be rewarded," Sistenne nó Alyssum said, "but he wants you, and the Dowayne wants you to accept him. Our house does not need trouble from that direction."

But Amalie was unmoved by this. At seventeen, she knew her mind, and though she was as modest as any adept in Alyssum, more than most, she had lived in Dahlia as a child and had marked the stubborn pride of the girls she had grown up with. Amalie could, and would, stay adamant in her decision even in the face of pressure.

The Dowayne made other arrangements. Several contracts were made with Lecouraine, each with an adept Amalie was close friends with, with a clause allowing, even requiring, the adepts to discuss the events with Amalie. She grew more and more curious with each telling, and none of them seemed at all alarming. Her friends rather liked the priest, they said. He fed them sweets and pampered them, and if he was artless in his lovemaking, he was ardent as well. He enjoyed it, they enjoyed his enjoyment, and everything was as it should be.

She should have guessed what this meant. She did not.

Amalie still felt a trepidation when she finally accepted another contract with the priest of Elua. She reminded herself that it would bring her very close to completion of her marque, that her friends had told her everything, and she tried to be convinced that her fears were unfounded, a stray intuition gone wrong. It very nearly worked. She read over the contract on her way to the designated location, a house in a part of the city where many merchants and minor nobles had their homes. She was retained for an evening, for a meal and for pleasure in privacy afterward.

Everything was in order, though perhaps the terms seemed different than the last few contracts she had taken with other patrons. But Amalie had read those less closely. It might be that her nerves were fooling her into not remembering aright. She pulled her modest cloak around herself, hiding even within the coach, from what she did not know.

She began to relax once she had been admitted to the house by the servants. They took her cloak, showed her to a comfortable sitting room, and left her alone with a platter of delicacies that tempted her with delicious aromas. She found herself reaching more than once toward the plate, stopping herself by folding her hands together in her lap. 

"Ah, Amalie, why do you deny yourself?" The man himself stood there. He was dark-haired, though there was a streak of gray at his temple that she did not remember from the last time he had contracted her services, more than a year before. 

The contract specified she should call him by his first name. It was overly familiar, Amalie felt, and she blushed as she said it. "I thought to wait for you, Vercel." It was a part of the courtesy that was trained into every child who grew up serving at the Night Court, except for the name.

"But these morsels smelled so good, you wanted to taste. And so you should have." He picked up a bite-sized treat and held it to her lips. It tasted as good as she had imagined. Careful of her training, she kissed his, Vercel's, fingertips in thanks. He fed her another bite, and this time when she kissed his fingertip he left it resting on her lips. 

Amalie kept her head tilted forward as she looked up at Vercel through her lashes. Which had the desired effect, she noted the wordless sound he made, the faint tremble in his fingers. She managed to chew and swallow without dislodging his touch. She waited for him to move his fingers away before she spoke. "Don't you want to eat with me, Vercel?" 

"You are the only temptation for my appetites, dear Amalie." He broke off one end of a soft ball of dough and cheese, held it to her lips, and when she opened her mouth to receive it, put his finger in along with the food. 

She let him. This was more forward than most of her patrons would be outside a bedchamber, but they were alone and it would be impossible to protest with his finger in her mouth anyway. Amalie wondered if he had intended that. She would have expected such a thought to bring back her nervousness, but it did not. Instead she had begun to feel a languid relaxation throughout her body. 

Amalie fell into a strange sleep with Vercel's finger still in her mouth. She had begun to suck on it as if she were an infant.

When she woke, a strange ache between her eyes but otherwise relaxed, she was on a bed. "What happened?" she asked. Or tried to ask, because her words were slurred. She was embarrassed at how drunk she sounded. She did not remember having any wine at all. 

"So long a wait to have you back, dear Amalie, and I was impatient. It would have been better to bring you into this gradually, naturally. If only you had not kept me waiting so long. Fourteen months and more, and your house so keen to send you to my arms, me so eager to have you." Vercel wrapped something soft around her ankle. It felt nice, like downy feathers. 

. .

His voice grew unaccustomedly strident as he warmed to his theme. "Your little friends were proper servants of Naamah," he said, "flowers of Alyssum, modest and yielding. They blushed as they pleased me, excited by praise but unwilling to credit it completely, knowing it was more than they deserved for themselves, that the goddess through them had earned most of it. But you." His cheeks reddened, she saw. She bit the inside of her lip. It would be bad to try to speak. Interrupting him would — she felt a tremor run through her. Make it worse, she felt, though she could hardly imagine how.

Worse than this blasphemy? This betrayal? But, a cold part of her mind thought, she was comfortable enough. She was lying in a soft bed, immobilized - true - but in a position she could have easily assumed without restraints. While the overall situation might not be able to get worse, her immediate physical position certainly could. Probably would. Best not to provoke the wild beast.

"You are nothing like that, little whore. You mimic it well enough to fool most, I suppose." She had not seen his mouth in such a cynical twist before, and wondered at how it transformed his face. "But not me. I serve Elua, who blessed me to know the secret desires of men and women, the love that they fear to express, so I can better counsel them. Behind their modesty was sweetness, but behind yours is pride, yes, and denial. And what you deny, my pretty creature, destroyed me utterly. 

"Love as thou wilt. Such a simple thing, is it not? And yet it cannot be done. Not by you, twisted demoness that you truly are. Somehow you have managed to want to be loved as you do not will. And if that were all, I would banish you from Naamah's service for it and be done. Sacrilege like you should not tarnish Terre D'Ange soil. But that is not all. 

"I burned from that moment with unshakeable desire to betray Elua, for you. To blaspheme with you as our one desire? As our mutual will that we defile yours?" He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and bent over her. "I thought it might be pride. I tried to atone."

"And then! Salvation. I found a patron." He gestured widely. "This is her house; she is a scion of Azza. She taught me pride in what I am, whether it is blasphemy or not." He took a deep breath. "She told me that while the strictures of Elua and his Companions guide us, it is their example that we must follow, and sometimes that requires breaking their strictures. Just as Elua committed blasphemy against his Grandfather because he was not bloodless, I must commit it against him because I also am not.

"And neither are you." He walked away from the bed for a moment. Amalie followed him with her eyes. He picked up a sharp knife and brought it back with him, pressing it lightly against her throat. "Be very still, little whore." 

She tried to, but could not suppress the motion of her throat as she swallowed. The knife tip burned against her skin. Slowly, he sliced open her dress down the front, between her breasts and down her sternum to her navel. 

"I don't understand," Amelie said. "I didn't do anything to you!" She tried to stop herself from speaking, and her wrists tugged against the restraints. She couldn't cover her mouth anymore than she could cover any of the rest of herself. 

"You did. The contract you agreed to, useless. What do you think Elua meant by 'love as thou wilt' — to lock yourself behind words? No knives, no force, but you crave these things, don't you?" He set the knife across her belly and slid his hand into her skirts, between her legs. A thrill that wasn't fear went through her at the slide of his fingers along her inner folds, slick and wet. "You see?" 

"You can't do this." Her lip trembled as she said it. Was it the potential to be— this— that she'd sensed in him, the wrongness she'd known from the moment they met? How could the same man be so good to everyone else and so evil only to her?

Maybe it really was something she'd done. But— that made no sense. She had not done anything different than she did with any other patron. No different, that she had known of, to what any other adept of Alyssum did with their patrons. Amelie tried to think. But, where he had touched her between her legs, throbbed. Her nipples swelled and tightened as they would with pleasure, but this wasn't pleasure. This was terrible, and pleasure was sweet. Wasn't it?

"I can't, Elua forbids it," Vercel said darkly. "And yet, I must. Elua requires it. You see how you have destroyed me, whore? Making me do such things is unforgivable." His tongue darted out, licking his lips nervously. "Another thing we are forbidden. Alyssum contracts never permit third parties to watch, it would be a violation of the adept's modesty. But you— " he took hold of her nipple and pinched it, twisted, and she gasped, as he went on, "—you want your modesty to be violated. And so it shall be." 

The door opened. The woman who came in wore a half-mask, cloth painted bronze. It was not a real priest of Azza's mask, but what an adept costumed as one might wear on the Longest Night. She had on a lightweight robe loosely tied, and Amelie thought nothing under that. 

"Azza was proud, and the Yeshuites say he loved the first woman," said the woman in the mask. "One heretical sect of them say that Anael loved the first man, and that the first man and woman were to be married by God, and the two of them jealously plotted together to prevent their marriage. Anael grew a special apple tree, one whose fruit bore a blessing and a curse, to see what was in others' hearts. Azza shared one of the apples with the first woman, and she saw his desire for her, but she misunderstood. She feared God, what would happen if she disobeyed, and went to the first man with the apple, convincing him to eat it with her as well, hoping that would make him desire her as Azza had. 

"But he was, like her, intending to marry her only because God had commanded it. God had not wanted them to know, and he was angry with Azza and Anael, but they were punished enough by their own actions. Still, the memory of it was enough to send them straight to Elua when he offered them a place." 

Amelie wondered what the story meant to the woman, that she was telling it to her now. "Why," she began. 

"Azza regretted not taking the woman against her will; she only said no because she feared what God would do to her for her disobedience. There was never another chance for them." The woman slipped her robe off. She was naked now but for the mask. "I offered my own Azza his chance, and here you are."

"Did you wonder how a priest of Elua had the gold to offer you so rich a contract, whore?" No, Amelie had not thought to wonder that. She had assumed he had been given it as a gift by some grateful person he had helped or taught. She shook her head once, and Vercel went on. "I am no Azza, my Lady," he said to the naked woman. Then he turned back to Amelie. "My patron is generous."

"You intend to watch us coupling?" Amelie asked, her mouth dry. She had been watched by other adepts, practicing, but that was different. Her contract very clearly required that there be no others, not servants nor companions, present while she fulfilled her service to Naamah with this man. 

If the woman would do this, what else might she do? She must be dangerous. To have influenced a man like Vercel to damn himself to pursue his lust, pushed him past what must have been a great inhibition against this act— more than dangerous, she must be diabolical. It was wrong, this was all wrong, and how was it possible that she even felt a trickle of desire for this woman? For someone who would furnish payment for a priest of Elua to betray his vows and blaspheme? Even the most lovely body and form should not do that to a sworn servant of Naamah, a modest adept of Alyssum... but it seemed it did. She did.

"I intend," the woman said, a low thrill in her voice, "to watch him rape you. And, I think, to hear you begging him to do it again."

Vercel picked up the knife again, cutting down Amelie's skirts until her dress fell to either side. His fingers slid inside her, soft fingers with close-cut nails groping roughly until he found the nub, rolling it between middle finger and thumb until her back arched, pulling her ankles against their restraints. "No, please," Amelie said, not sure if she meant please stop, or please continue. It was hard to think. It had never been this difficult to keep her thoughts in line before while on an assignation.

If she had been able to think and not consumed by bewildering blasphemous lust, there might have been something she could have done to stop them. Maybe not, maybe it was an illusion she was protecting herself with, the possibility of it being something like what a Valerian adept might have done, not that she knew much about that, but everyone who grew up at the Night Court knew a little about it. Not -- not the complete rebuke to Elua's teachings that it seemed on its face.

That moment passed quickly, if it hadn't been a figment.

"Tell me to stop," Vercel said, slipping his fingers now wet with the evidence of her physical arousal out of her for a moment. "Not just 'no, please,' that could mean anything." 

She thought she ought to refuse. "The contract," she gasped, her breath short, words between the shudders she couldn't stop. "You are to have me." 

"I signed it," Vercel said. "None of this is in there. The restraints, the observer. And this." His finger slid slickly down to touch her tight sphincter. She felt it flex, tried to relax, couldn't — fear that she couldn't admit in her own mind kept her body disobedient to her will. "Completely out of bounds of this contract, I made sure of it." 

She could have said she would change the terms. Adepts were permitted to adjust contracts when necessary, if there was agreement. Not everything could be predicted in advance, when it came to love and the will. But that wasn't what he wanted, and there would have been no agreement. 

"Say stop," Vercel urged her, his fingertip penetrating her as he spoke. 

"Look at her nipples," the woman said. Amelie wondered what her name was. "She is aroused by this, you were right. What a little traitor to Naamah," she purred, leaning over Amelie's face, close enough to have kissed her but not touching, looking deeply into her eyes. 

Amelie tried not to, but as he stretched her hole with a second finger she couldn't stop herself. "Stop, don't do this," panting between words as she spoke. 

"I won't stop," Vercel said, thrusting the second finger home. Amelie felt herself relax and clench around them, a surge of betraying desire easing what had been almost painful a moment before. She tried very hard to stop thinking at that point, because thinking would mean realizing he was right, they were both right, she was a heretic, her very desire was a betrayal of everything she believed in. 

It was a little easier because she was more aroused than she could ever remember being in her life. "Having broken the contract," Vercel said as he worked his fingers out of her and washed in a basin, then took his cock in hand and began to tease her with it, sliding it along her wet lower lips and against her swollen nub, "none of this is lawful. If I loose you, you will flee." He thrust into her and Amelie let out a sound she'd never heard herself make before, a ragged groan like ones she'd heard many times from others. 

When Vercel came to spend, he pulled out and spattered all over her stomach, breasts, and chin. Ropes of sticky semen clung to her, its smell overpowering the light incense that perfumed the room. "Unchain her," he said to the woman, supporting himself with a hand on one bedpost as he recovered.

"Oh, I see," the woman said. She unfastened the bonds. "Now you can run, whore, naked and covered with the evidence of your crime, betraying your modesty as the lie it always has been, or you can stay and admit to the proof of what you are." She smiled and licked her lips with the tip of her pink tongue. Amelie wondered at her breath shortening to see this. 

She didn't move. She did not want anyone to know any of this. If she never told anyone at Alyssum, no one would find out, this could still be hidden. Elua and Naamah would forgive her, and no one else needed to know. "What do I need to say to make you let me go?"

. .

At several points during the two hours, Amelie had been sure they would not let her go at the appointed hour. But they did. The coach was waiting, as pre-arranged. She was only a few minutes late.

She did not speak to the coachman. She did not speak to the other adepts when she returned to Alyssum. She went to her room and lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until she fell asleep.


End file.
